


darkness this way comes

by Red (S_Hylor)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), First Aid, M/M, Major Character Injury, Missions Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24388348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/Red
Summary: Tony’s on the hunt for stolen Stark Tech. The last thing he needs is a babysitter. Except when Steve insists on coming along because ‘that’s what teammates do’ Tony suspects that maybe it's more about mending bridges than babysitting. Of course, that’s when it all goes horribly, terribly wrong and Tony’s left stranded without a Quinjet, with a heavily injured Captain America.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 81
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2020





	darkness this way comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarthBloodOrange (DepressingGreenie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepressingGreenie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [RBB 2020 - Team Director [!Art]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24385744) by [DarthBloodOrange (DepressingGreenie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepressingGreenie/pseuds/DarthBloodOrange). 



> This fic would not have been possible without [quandong_crumble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble). Without q, I'd still be sitting there sobbing over my laptop saying "i can't write fight scenes!" along with a lot of other things I said. Mostly about writers block and how much it sucks. 
> 
> So a big thanks to q for all the hand holding, beta work, and for being my "insert dogfight here" person.

Tony looks across the cockpit of the Quinjet at Steve; the way the light filters through the windscreen and across Steve’s face and hair. The cowl hangs around his neck, one arm braced against the top of the window as he leans forward, surveying the late afternoon sky in front of them. Tony can’t help but be grateful that, despite the arguments, Steve had insisted that he was going to tag along. 

JARVIS had alerted Tony to the sale of black market Stark weapons 24 hours prior, and it had thrown him into a whirlwind of tracking down the buyers, and the suppliers. Steve had found him in the workshop, full of manic energy, caffeine and sleep deprivation, ready to suit up and go after them solo. Steve’s insistence that he should go too had put Tony’s back up immediately. The last thing he needed was a babysitter, someone there to tell him all the mistakes he made. 

His snap judgement had been unfair, he knew that. So he and Steve had traded a few harsh words early on, but he’d been wrong about what he said. Even as he said it he had known it was false. Everything special about Captain America came from Steve Rogers, not from some science experiment Howard had had a hand in. Not that he’d found a way to say that to Steve at all over the months that Steve and the other Avengers had been living in the tower. Except when he’d seen the stubborn set of Steve’s jaw as he insisted that he wanted to accompany Tony because ‘that’s what teammates do’ Tony suspects that maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe they’ve found a happy medium where they both just move on from the stuff they said, and they learn to get along. 

If that is what has happened, Tony is grateful. If it isn’t he’s not entirely sure why Steve is there now, frowning out at the slowly setting sun. Maybe it was to keep an eye on him, maybe Steve didn’t trust him not to make a mess of this. The thoughts are stewing over in his mind when Steve tilts his face towards him and his expression softens, lips twitching into what might be an attempt at a reassuring smile. 

Maybe it isn’t any of those things at all. Maybe it is just teamwork. The notion still sits foreign in Tony’s mind, but he manages a grimace in return. 

Steve shifts his weight on his feet, pushing off of the window frame and reaches out, hand resting on Tony’s shoulder, where he sits in the pilot’s chair. “We’ll get your tech back, Stark.” 

  
  


The attack comes out of nowhere. 

One minute it’s smooth flying, nothing at all on the radar, no signs that they’d been detected. The next the Quinjet is being fired upon and the controls jam and become unresponsive in Tony’s hands. 

The Quinjet pitches sharply to the side, throwing Steve off his feet and into the bulkhead; Tony barely manages to stay in the pilot's seat. 

“Cap?” He calls out, trying to level out the Quinjet, not chancing a look behind him despite the growing worry. 

“I’m alright.” Steve calls back, voice sounding a little strained, but then he appears beside the pilot’s chair, dragging himself forward by gripping the backrest. “You got eyes on it?” 

Tony shakes his head, finally managing to drag the Quinjet out of it’s tail spin, levelling it back out. “There’s nothing on the radar.” 

Even as he says it, the Quinjet lurches to the side again, thrown about by another impact. The sky around them is dark, though a darker shape looms against the skyline: the island they were heading for. 

Steve leans forward over the console, staring out into the night, eyes narrowed. There’s an odd angle to the way he’s holding his right arm that sets off an alarm in Tony’s mind. Steve’s not nearly as alright as he claimed he was. There’s no time to pull him up on his lie though, because the Quinjet pitches again, hit by something that isn’t appearing on the radar at all. 

If he wasn’t so focused on the situation at hand, Tony thinks he’d be offended that someone had managed to out tech him. The radar and scanning equipment in the Quinjet were the best there was, and to think that something could get by them. 

As the Quinjet jolts again, Steve barely catches himself before his head hits the windscreen, pushing himself off and turning to scan the sky again. “There!” 

He gestures with his good arm, finger pointed and trailing the movement of something in the darkness. Tony tries to track the direction, but all he can see is dark sky, interspersed with stars. “I don’t see anything.” 

Steve frowns, but doesn’t look away, practically pressing himself against the glass to try and follow the attacker that he can see. “Just trust me on this one, Stark. There’s something out there.”

“What does it look like?” Tony’s brain is already firing, ready for any data input to try and determine what it is. 

“Like a ripple. It’s just a distortion, not anything solid, but I can see it.” Comes the reply as Steve whips his head back the other way. “Fast, agile. Not overly large, about the size of the armour, as best i can tell. There might be more than one.”

Tony curses under his breath, feeling his hackles rise, then spits out, “They took more than fucking weapons.” 

Steve shoots at look back at him, face creased with worry, and all Tony can do is grimace in response. He has no idea how anyone managed to get their hands on his stealth tech. He didn’t want to point fingers, except he kind of did, but he knew full well the leak wasn’t on his end, and the only other people with his stealth tech were SHIELD. 

“Think you can take the wheel for a bit, Cap?” Tony asks, already halfway out of the pilots chair. Steve nods resolutely, reaching for the controls with his good arm before dropping into the chair that Tony vacated. The Quinjet lurches a bit on the transfer, but nowhere near as violently as it had under attack. “JARVIS, let’s suit up.” 

The suit is wrapping around him even before he reaches the back of the Quinjet. 

“Opening her up.” He calls back to Steve, hitting the release to open up the loading plank of the Quinjet. The wind whips around his hard, thrumming around him like a drum beat, but he doesn’t hesitate before throwing himself out into the night. 

The HUD lights up in front of his eyes, scans running over the night around him, but only picking up the Quinjet to start with. “Let’s look a little deeper, hey J?” 

On the HUD they look like silhouettes of the old Hammertech attempts to copy Iron Man, each outlined carefully in neon so he can see them. Without JARVIS carefully tracking the movements, it would be like trying to pick out shadows against the night sky. Tony paints each of them and sends mini-missiles from his wrist launcher their way. The explosions light up the night sky like fireworks, but when he blinks the afterimage away he can still see three perfectly intact targets.

“Shit.”

Of course, these things are never easy.

Tony follows up with repulsor blasts. He doesn’t need to knock them out of the sky, not just yet. But he needs to draw them away from the Quinjet before they do any more damage. The first turns its head towards him in a movement that looks far more mechanical than human, and breaks off its attack on the plane.

“Scan for lifesigns,” Tony says.

Whatever it is may look somewhat like Iron Man but the movements are all wrong. The drawn suit opens fire, and Tony banks hard left, then cuts his repulsors for a moment, dropping underneath the Quinjet.

“No life signs detected,” JARVIS says in his ear. 

The stealth suit that had taken notice of him copies his move. It’s sharper, clumsier, and changes direction in a way that would leave Tony with bone deep bruises if he tried it at this speed. Whether they’re remotely piloted or running on some kind of AI, they can fly in ways that his flesh-and-blood body can’t manage.

Tony rolls out of the way of two more blasts. The suit retargets him with preternatural speed, and Tony responds with another roll. Straight into the blasts from the second suit. The impact jars him, rattling him so hard he has to blink away spots from his vision.

“I don’t know how much more of this the Quinjet can take, Stark.”

Steve’s voice cuts through his momentary confusion.

“The Quinjet’s power reserves are at 70% and falling rapidly,” JARVIS reports. “Sir, both suits targeting you have not ceased their attacks on the Quinjet.”

“Let’s see if we can’t take this fight out to the parking lot,” Tony mutters.

“What was that?” Steve says.

“I’m going to try and give you some breathing room, Cap.”

He fires off another round at each stealth suit and changes direction, rocketing away into the sky. Bright pips on the HUD mark the two suits that’d bothered to pay him any attention breaking off their attack on the ‘jet and following him. He can only cross his fingers and hope it's enough.

“J?”

Another blast rocks the suit and Tony throws himself into his best evasive maneuvers.

“The rate of damage to the Quinjet has slowed. The rate of damage to yourself, sir, is increasing exponentially.”

“Dealing with it,” Tony grunts.

He drops again, letting gravity carry him below the two stealth suits. It gives him a chance to paint their more vulnerable points for a precision strike. The HUD lights up in diagrams and diagnostics predicting which joint or potential seam offers the least shielding. With the advanced stealth tech still engaged, it’s educated guesses as much as actual targeting.

Tony fires off the last of his mini-missiles and darts away from the explosions.

“I can see one of them on the radar now,” Steve says.

Tony banks in a tight turn and looks back. One of the stealth suits has lost its stealth capacity. Instead of a warped distortion of night sky helpfully outlined by JARVIS, he can now see a mockery of his own suit in dark greys and blues.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. He raises his voice so Steve can actually hear him and says, “I’ve damaged one enough to actually see it. Hang in there, Cap. These aren’t going down without a fight.”

Steve’s reply is lost in JARVIS’ warning of a target lock, and then Tony has to focus all of his energy on the dogfight.

The suits are tough. This isn’t Hammertech he’s fighting, it’s a close enough approximation of his own quality craftsmanship. Only, without a human body to protect inside these suits, drones, bots, whatever, are a whole lot tougher than he is.

“Sir, at the rate you’re sustaining damage, the Iron Man suit will fail before either of your targets.”

“Time to change strategy.”

Tony locks his sights on the visible suit and closes with it. It might be better than Hammertech, but the quality still isn’t as good as his own. Even without a human body to form around, the armour panels have seams large enough to allow him access to their more delicate inner workings. Tony crashes into it with a bone-shaking rattle and locks one arm around the thing’s neck. He yanks its head to one side and aims a laser at the seam where the neck and shoulder meet. It’s not easy, especially once the thing twists one arm impossibly backwards and fires a repulsor blast straight into his face. It’s not quick, either. The rapid spin they’re locked in at least makes it hard for stealth suit number two to do too much damage to him while he’s grappling number one.

The laser burns out only half a second after the suit’s red eyes start to flicker and dim. Tony pushes away from it and watches it fall, empty and dead, towards the ocean below.

“Stark!”

“Sir, the Quinjet’s power reserves have fallen below 40%, and hull integrity is at 60% and falling.”

“Coming,” Tony says, and then the second stealth suit hits him in the back like a linebacker making a tackle.

Alarms ring in his ears and flash across the HUD as Tony plummets through the sky, the stealth suit propelling him downward. Tony squirms in its grasp, hammering at the arms wrapped around his waist in panic for a moment before his brain kicks back into gear. He fires a repulsor blast at the arms, but their grip doesn’t loosen.

“Sir, you’re losing altitude at an alarming rate.”

“Put it on the HUD, and keep me updated on the Quinjet.”

“The Quinjet’s power reserves are below 35%, and the hull integrity is at 54%.”

Tony pries at one hand locked to his midsection, trying to get it lifted enough that a repulsor blast will loosen the stealth suit’s grip. “Cap, I’m a bit caught up here. Try and shake him.”

“Been trying,” Steve responds, his voice strained.

The altimeter in his HUD flashes red and Tony squirms again, kicking out backwards. He can’t get any kind of grip on his assailant. He sighs and preps his last laser, aiming at the suit’s elbow.

Like last time, it seems to take forever for the laser to cut through the suit, but eventually the arm sparks and falls away. Tony tears free of the suit’s grip and races up again, the ocean far too close for comfort below and spread out like a black void. The suit, no longer stealthed, follows him clumsily, its flight hampered by the missing arm.

“The Quinjet’s power reserves are at 15% and falling. Hull integrity is compromised.”

“Hang in there, Cap, I’m almost done.”

Tony dodges another repulsor blast from the suit chasing him, trying to lead it back towards the Quinjet. He can see the silhouette of the island looming, Steve’s piloting still making a beeline for their target. The Quinjet itself is somewhere above him, between him and the island. Tony puts on a burst of speed and gains altitude.

The stealth suit still follows. Tony loops around and fires at it. He’s out of lasers, he’s out of missiles; he’s used to his repulsors being enough against most enemies. Even sparking and disabled the stealth suit is tough. It’s an easier target now that it has more trouble changing direction, though.

“Quinjet hull breached,” JARVIS reports.

Tony halts in midair and directs almost all of his power to the chest repulsor. The unibeam catches the stealth suit centre-mass and its vicious red eyes blink once, and go dark. Tony watches for only a second as the dead suit tumbles towards the ocean below. Then he turns and races towards the Quinjet.

“The Quinjet has experienced total power failure.”

He can see it in the distance, still far too far away, as the Quinjet’s lights go dark and it spirals towards the ground. It’s too far away, he let himself get too far behind in the fight. There’s no way he’ll reach it in time.

He diverts all power to his boot jets and races through the night sky, his suit shaking around him and alarms blaring across the HUD about G forces and damage. It’s all he can do.

It’s still not enough though.

The world stops as the sky lights up a fiery red with the explosion. Tony’s heart freezes in his chest and Steve’s name rips out of his throat. He keeps barrelling towards it, gets buffeted by the rush of air displaced by the explosion, dodging around shrapnel propelled outwards. Faintly, he registers JARVIS reporting the third stealth suit’s destruction in the inferno.

All he can hope is that Steve managed to get clear of the Quinjet before it crashed. There’s no lifesigns showing up on the HUD as he swoops lower towards the ocean surface just in case, and trying to use heat signatures is hopeless in the wake of the explosion. Everything for about a kilometre is lit up bright on the HUD, patterns of trees burning as the fire spreads out from the crash site. The suit doesn’t have the fire suppressant capabilities to fight a fire that large, and it’s all Tony can hope that the fire burns itself out before too long.

“Anything, J?” He asks, even though he knows the answer is likely to be a negative. 

“There’s no sign of Captain Rogers away from the crash site, sir.” JARVIS replies, apologetically. 

Closer in, the smoke is so thick that Tony can smell it despite the air filtration, he slows down, weaving between broken trees and scattered debris that might have once been the Quinjet. 

“Come on, Steve.” He pleads the scorched air around him, putting the call out over the comms but is only greeted by static in response. Trying not to think about what the silence could mean, Tony switches tack. “J, try and get me a line back to the tower. SHIELD, anyone. Send them our location and request immediate backup.” 

The twisted frame of the Quinjet comes into view, barely visible through the smoke until he’s right on top of it. One wing is torn off entirely, the pieces of it no doubt scattered like confetti behind him. Panels have been torn away during the crash, others bent and ripped, so he’s able to see into the carcass of the plane. Wires spark with a failing power supply, as though an animal in its death throes. 

He sets down on the ground just outside the remains of the Quinjet, using the fire suppression in the suit to put out the closest of the fires, clearing a path inside the plane. The floor panels creak ominously beneath his feet with each step .

“Sir, the Quinjet’s structural integrity-”

“Zip it, J,” Tony interrupts. If he doesn’t listen he can feign ignorance when Steve chews him out for taking unnecessary risks later on. If he manages to find him, that is. 

Tony pushes the creeping feeling of dread back down, refusing to think about the possibility that he won’t find Steve. The guy had been an ice cube for seventy years and survived, he wasn’t about to get wiped out by a little explosion. The words repeated in his mind like a mantra: over and over in rapid succession like the quicker he thought them the more likely they were to come true. 

“Steve?” He calls out, broadcasting over the comms as well. “C’mon Cap, if you aren’t in here, I’m gonna be pissed that you’re making me venture into this death trap.” 

The only reply he gets is static over the comms and the creaks, groans and bangs of the hull of the Quinjet expanding in the heat of the fire burning around it. The follow up explosions that make Tony flinch and the HUD light up with warnings. 

Dodging around exposed wires hanging down from the wrecked ceiling, Tony moves forward into the cockpit. The entire cockpit is crumpled in, the console smashed and windscreen obliterated, having nose-dived into the ground. He checks for the medical kit that should be stored in the bulkhead near the rear of the cockpit. It seems futile, without any evidence of Steve in the Quinjet at all, but he’d feel so much better with a decent first aid kit in hand beyond what little he can cram into the armour. The kit’s gone now, though. In fact, that entire section of the bulkhead is gone. It’s probably scattered over the last three kilometers and burned to a crisp by now. 

Who cares about the medical kit if he can’t even find Steve? Tony surveys the rest of the cockpit and realises the pilot’s seat is no longer fixed to the floor where it is meant to be, and it takes a quick scan around the immediate area to realise that it’s no longer in the cockpit at all. 

Tony turns his gaze back to the smashed windshield, can picture it in his mind, the force of impact throwing the pilot’s chair, and likely Steve straight out the front. Firing up the repulsors again, Tony flies free of the Quinjet, warnings flashing in front of his eyes as he scrapes past metal and glass on the way free. 

Equations roll through his head, force, velocity, speed all rolling together to calculate how far the pilot’s chair might have been thrown, but in the end it is JARVIS who picks up the distinct human heat signature. The pilot’s chair had gouged into the earth before it had slammed into a tree, hard enough that it was embedded in the wood, leaving the chair half suspended and Steve’s body hanging limply from it, still secured by the harness. 

Tony’s stomach turns when his mind slowly registers that the splash of rapidly cooling colour on the earth beneath Steve is blood. 

“Scan him, J.”

“Captain Rogers is showing signs of concussion and hypovolemic shock, sir. He also appears to have extensive skeletal fractures and muscle damage consistent with whiplash.”

“Spine?” Tony’s reduced to single syllable words, his heart beating wildly in his throat as his eyes flicker over Steve’s pulse, blood pressure and respiration stats on the HUD.

“I do not detect any spinal damage at this time.”

When JARVIS’s preliminary scans determine that it’s safe to move Steve, Tony pulls the pilot’s chair free of the tree, turning it over as carefully as he can before lowering it into a position that leaves Steve somewhat reclined, so his head tips back against what remains on the headrest. He tries to ignore the loose, disjointed way that his body moves, from the way his head lolls to the sickening new angles his right arm has acquired. The main thing that matters is that his heart is still beating and that he’s still breathing. Both too fast for comfort, but better than not at all. 

The clasp for the harness is too damaged to release, so Tony has to cut through the belts to free Steve, trying to ignore the way his hands come away with blood on them until he gets Steve free of the chair and laid out on the ground. He moves Steve as carefully as he can, holding his neck steady with one hand as he does, despite the fact that JARVIS was unable to detect any spinal injuries, Tony does not want to be the one responsible for paralysing Captain America. 

He catches himself on that thought, aware that he’s spiralling close to panicking and hysterics, and knowing that neither of those serve any purpose in this situation. He pauses, taking a deep breath and firmly telling himself to calm down. 

“Save the hysterics for when this is all over.” He mumbles through gritted teeth, pushing the feelings down until his mind calms, going carefully blank before he switches his focus back to Steve. The front of the uniform is covered in blood, presumably from the same wound that had caused the puddle of blood on the ground. The same wound responsible for the signs of hypovolemic shock. He’s close to spiralling again, and he can’t. 

“Keep those stats coming, J. Any ideas on the blood?” He asks, mostly to force himself to keep focus, already working on pulling back the torn sections of Steve’s uniform and cutting them away until he can see skin. Steve’s abdomen is smeared with blood, and there’s a gash in his side that correlates with the tear in his uniform. It’s deep; Tony can see the ragged edges of skin and muscle that have been torn away, but the bleeding has already slowed down considerably. Tony just hopes that it is because the serum is working to heal Steve, and not because he’s running out of blood. 

“I cannot detect damage to any major arteries, sir. Applying pressure to the wound should be sufficient.” JARVIS responds. 

Tony follows the instructions, taking gauze and bandages from the emergency first aid kit he carried in the suit and pressing them to the wound in Steve’s side. The layers of gauze turn red almost instantly; Tony busts open another packet, pressing that on top of the gauze already there, before applying the bandage over top. He watches it carefully, relieved when the bandages don’t instantly soak with blood. “I’ve stopped the bleeding. That should... That should fix it, right J?”

“Captain Rogers’ blood pressure is still dropping, sir.”

“Shit.” That is not the response that Tony wanted to hear at all. He doesn’t have the medical provisions or know-how to deal with anything worse than surface injuries. The idea of internal bleeding has been lurking at the edge of his mind the whole time, but if it is extensive there is nothing he can do about it. What supply of blood they kept on the Quinjet for emergencies had disappeared with the medical supplies. 

So he does what he can, running through the mental checklist for the treating shock that had been drilled into him in every first aid course they’d gone through. Removing the suit to free up his range of movement, Tony sets a comm earpiece in, so he can keep talking to JARVIS and the other Avengers if they ever decide to respond to the distress call JARVIS put out. He strips Steve’s glove off his unbroken left arm, his skin distressingly cool and clammy, though Tony tries not to let that distract him as he detaches one of the gauntlets from the suit and fits it around Steve’s hand.

“Give me a read out, J?” He asks, already moving on to dragging the wrecked chair around, tipping it face down, and then carefully maneuvering Steve’s legs so his feet are propped up on the flat side of the backrest. When he looks up again, the suit is projecting Steve’s pulse and blood pressure readings onto the ground. His pulse is still too quick, but his blood pressure is only creeping down, not plummeting like Tony feared it might be. 

Scrounging through his emergency first aid again, Tony pulls out the silvery emergency blanket, ripping the package open and shaking the blanket out. He spreads it over Steve, carefully trying to tuck it in around him, to try and keep him as warm as possible. 

“What else can I do, J?” Tony glances back up the suit that stares impassively down at him; there’s no reassurance there. 

“Captain Rogers would benefit from fluids,” JARVIS says in his ear. He sounds almost hesitant. “You do not have the equipment necessary to administer fluids intravenously, and you should not attempt to administer fluids orally while the Captain is unconscious.”

“So, basically you’re saying I can sit on my arse and do nothing?” JARVIS’s silence is all the response he needs. Tony curses under his breath, crouching besides Steve, feeling useless when he can do little else but watch the stats that the suit is projecting, and repeatedly touch the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead, desperately trying to gauge if his temperature is increasing.

Time passes like that. Tony alternates between watching the sky for signs of any more enemy robots, or preferably an approaching Quinjet, and watching Steve carefully. A bruise forms around his right eye, standing out starkly against his skin that has gone so pale Tony’s almost sure it’s translucent. The projection of Steve’s vitals does show that they seem to settle, pulse still too fast, and blood pressure still too low, but it stops creeping down, and Tony can only hope that that means somewhere in Steve’s supersoldier body, things are starting to mend themselves without the need for medical intervention. He’s not sure if that’s just a story he is telling himself for comfort though. 

“All the stories I’ve heard of you throwing yourself out of planes, Cap, I would have thought you’d have bailed this time.” Tony says out loud when the silence starts to get to him, when he’s lost track of how many times he’s checked Steve’s temperature. It feels like it is increasing again, though his skin is still clammy to the touch. “Or at least you’d have crashed into the ocean again.” 

When that doesn’t get any reaction either, Tony points an accusatory finger at Steve. “You, sir, are a shit pilot. Do you even know how much that plane cost? A lot. I’ll have you know. A fucking lot.” 

There’s a tick of movement on Steve’s face, his eyebrows pulling down slightly, face scrunching in pain, and his lips move ever so slightly, parting as he mumbles something, trailing off into a groan. 

It takes a moment for the word to register in Tony’s mind, and by the time he does, Steve’s watching him through barely open eyes. Tony’s so relieved that he doesn’t even care that he was being reprimanded for swearing. 

“Hey, you.” Tony reaches out again to test Steve’s temperature, and is relieved to see that Steve’s eyes do track his movements somewhat. “How you feeling?” 

Steve’s eyes roll back to Tony’s face, not quite focused, but his lips move again and Tony leans closer to hear him. “Like I crashed a fucking expensive plane.” 

Tony can’t help but snort a laugh, feeling hysterical with relief that Steve’s awake and talking, even if his words are slurred and quiet. “Yeah, well, next time, maybe don’t.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Steve’s eyes fall closed again, and he’s quiet for long enough that Tony worries he’s fallen unconscious again. “Did we get them?”

“Yeah, we got them. I think you dropped a plane on one of them. Wizard of Oz style.” Tony replies. He knows he’s babbling, but he can't stop himself. 

Steve hums in affirmation, grimacing as he does. “In that case I want my ruby slippers so I can go home.” 

Tony feels his heart constrict in his chest, a pang of guilt at not not being able to take Steve home again. There’s no way he could carry Steve out of there in the suit. Not without causing further injuries. “The others are coming to get us, buddy. We just have to sit tight until then.” 

“I think I’ll stay lying down.” Steve mumbles, the corner of his mouth kicking up in the approximation of a smile. “If that’s alright.” 

Tony smiles back, nodding, even though Steve’s eyes stay shut. “Yeah, you do that, Cap. They’ll be here before you know it.” 

Steve doesn’t reply straight away, the silence stretching out again long enough that Tony reaches out to check his temperature again, just as an excuse to touch Steve. Steve’s head tips to follow Tony’s hand as he starts to draw it back, frowning when he loses contact. 

“Cold.” Steve grumbles, like it’s an excuse for wanting the contact, eyes opening ever so slightly. “And I think my arm is broken.” 

The sound that Tony makes is somewhere between a laugh and a sob, hysterical again. He’d seen Steve’s bones pressing out against his skin in a way that no bones ever should, he’s not even sure that ‘broken’ even begins to cover it. Though that is really the least of Steve’s problems. Tony bites down on the anxious ramblings that he knows he’s about to start, drawing in a deep breath instead, trying to calm himself down. “I think it’s definitely broken. But we’ll get you patched up soon enough. No skipping out of medical when we get back to base, alright, Rogers.” 

Making a noise that possibly means he agrees, Steve’s eye shut again and his left hand fidgets beneath the emergency blanket. “Am I wearing your armour?” 

“Just the gauntlet. Keeping track of your vitals. You managed to leave behind all the emergency med gear when you landed.” Tony shifts so he’s sitting higher up, closer to Steve’s head, and reaches out to brush his fingers against Steve’s hair, hesitantly, just in case it isn’t welcome. 

“Feels nice,” Steve hums contentedly, lips twitching up in a smile, which takes on a slightly cheeky edge when he opens his eyes again and tries to look up at Tony, and whispers, “You put your gauntlet on my left hand.” 

Snorting a laugh, Tony strokes his thumb across Steve’s forehead. “Doesn’t mean we’re married or anything.” 

Steve’s forehead scrunches as he pouts, and Tony’s sure that somewhere in Steve’s list of injuries, there’s probably also a concussion. Either that or he’s delirious from the pain. 

“You know, last time I crashed a plane I got asked on a date.” Steve mumbles after a moment, tone caught somewhere between melancholy and petulance. Which is not a combination Tony ever thought would go together. 

Brushing his fingers through Steve’s hair again, Tony can’t help the soft smile he gives Steve. “Tell you what, when we get home, once you’re all healed up, if you want to, I’ll take you out for dinner.” 

Steve blinks at him, eyes unfocused, but his pout melts into a hopeful smile. “I’d like that. Been tryin’ t’think of how to ask you on a date.” 

The comment blindsides Tony. He had been sure that Steve didn’t even really like him, only tolerated him as a teammate. The idea of Steve wanting to ask him on a date, if that was something real, and not just a pain induced delusion, seems so unfathomable.

“You were?” Tony asks, incredulously. 

Steve nods, then winces when he attempts to move his right arm, shoulder jerking but nothing else moving along with it. “Ow. Yeah. I wanted to. But you were always so. I dunno. Busy.” 

Busy avoiding Steve because he’d assumed the dislike between them from the beginning had still lingered, Tony admits to himself, but he can’t say it outloud. It feels too mean to say now. “I’d make time for you.” 

It doesn’t really surprise him as much as it should that it feels like he really means it. 

Closing his eyes again, Steve smiles. “That’d be nice. 

Before Tony can think what to reply, the comm unit in his ear crackles with static before Natasha’s voice comes over the air. 

“Stark, do you copy?” 

“Romanov, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear from you.” Relief makes him lightheaded. “Please tell me you are on your way. Cap’s not in good shape.” 

“We’re inbound, Tony. Just hang tight, we’re coming as fast as we can.” Natasha replies, and though the faintness of the communication indicates that they’re still a fair way out, Tony lets himself hope. Turning back to Steve, he finds him watching him blearily, and can’t help but smile. “You hear that, Cap? Rescue is on it’s way. You’re going to be okay.” 

Steve smiles back, some of the tension leaving his face, and Tony realises just how worried Steve had been as well. 

“Just don’t forget about our date.” Steve whispers, eyes shutting again as he tilts his head into Tony’s touch. “I won’t be late, I promise.” 

Tony brushes his thumb over Steve’s forehead again, easing the slight frown there. “I won’t be either.” 

  
  


The light filtering through the windows on the tower sets the room aglow. Tony can feel the warmth of the sun against the back of his head as he sits on the couch by the window. He angles the Starkpad on his lap a fraction more to avoid the sun glare coming off it, and keeps scrolling through the board report Pepper said he had to read in his down time. 

Hearing the tink of metal on glass, Tony glances up to see Steve rinsing one of his paint brushes. His heart swells, watching as Steve picks up another brush and turns back to the canvas set up on the easel in the middle of the room. Despite the bandages and the sling holding his right arm, Steve looks good. The bruises are starting to fade, which Tony is grateful for. Not just because he hates seeing Steve hurt, but because Steve had asked if they could hold off their date until he no longer ‘looked like he’d had the tar beat out of him’, as he’d so eloquently put it. Something about wanting to keep up appearances and not show the world that he can be hurt. Tony could appreciate that. That didn’t mean he was any less impatient though. 

Steve glances over and catches Tony watching him, giving him a self conscious smile, cheeks going pink. “What you looking at me like that for?” 

“Like what?” Tony counters, though he’s sure his expression was quite ridiculous. Not that he’d ever admit to mooning over Steve. 

Steve shrugs his good shoulder, turning back to his canvas, carefully touching the brush to it. He keeps glancing over at Tony though, cheeks darkening by intervals every time he realises he’s still being watched. “I dunno, like that.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cap.” Tony counters, though he props his chin on his hand and keeps watching Steve as he paints. The room is so quiet that every brush stroke he makes sounds like a deafening roar. 

A breeze goes through the room, the intensity of it picking up, and Tony frowns, because none of the windows are open. He looks back at Steve, who’s still painting, still shooting glances at him and still blushing, as though nothing is out of the ordinary. 

“Tony.” 

Steve’s lips don't move, but Tony hears his name. “What?” 

“Stark. Come in, Stark.” 

“I’m right here. Come in where?” Tony asks, confused, but Steve just smiles at him. 

“Stark, come on, answer me.” 

It’s not Steve’s voice. 

There’s something painful digging into Tony’s back, and suddenly the warmth of the sunlight on his back disappears. 

The wind whips around him, blowing debris and leaf litter over him and dust into his face. There’s the distinct scent of salt and smoke on the air, acrid with burnt metal and plastic. Blinking his eyes open, a light sweeps across his vision; when it passes, through the light stains in his vision he can see a Quinjet hovering in the air above him. 

His mind struggles to make sense of what it is doing inside the tower when he realises that he’s not inside at all. The dirt beneath him is cold and damp, a sea mist making his skin and undersuit damp and tacky. 

“Stark, oh thank fuck, he’s moving, Nat.” The voice that comes over the comms is Barton’s. “We’re going to find a safe place to land, Stark, we’ll be right with you.” 

The Quinjet lifts higher again, and starts to move away, back towards the coast. Tony pushes himself upright, unsure of how he even managed to fall asleep, slumped uncomfortably against the base of a tree. Everything in his body aches, and his mind is still so groggy with interrupted sleep that he doesn’t understand what is going on for a long moment. 

Then memories snap back into place, the fight, the crashing Quinjet, and Steve’s battered and bruised body. 

“Steve?” He pushes himself over onto his knees, shuffling closer to Steve, stroking his fingers through his hair. “Hey, buddy, wake up. Help’s here.” 

Steve doesn’t move, not stirring, no frowns or smiles like earlier. 

“Steve?” Tony tries again, brushing his fingers against Steve’s forehead, jerking his hand away from how cold he feels. “Come on, Steve, please. Wake up. It’s time to go home.” 

There’s still no reaction from Steve, just his too cold skin, and unmoving features. Tony looks at where the suit had been projecting Steve’s vitals. Hoping to see his blood pressure and heart rate the same as they had been earlier. 

Every field reads zero or is blank. 


End file.
